


Worlds of Starlight

by peterpan_in_neverland



Category: Never Have I Ever (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Shadow World Setting (Shadowhunter Chronicles), Alternate Universe - Shadowhunters, F/M, ITS SET IN LONDON, and i had no idea what to call this, and i may never finish this, and the rating may be updated as well, but i am enjoying what i am writing now, im bad at words, it just sounded nice, tags will be updated as I go, this title is straight BS btw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28186884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterpan_in_neverland/pseuds/peterpan_in_neverland
Summary: To be a Shadowhunter is to expect death and loss. There has not been a day in all her life that Devi has lived without the worry that one or both of her parents could die, their bodies burned in Idris and ashes scattered in the water, like her parents have always wanted. She expects them to die.She does not expect them— him— to disappear.--OR; in 1878, when Shadowhunters begin to go missing, Ben Gross' search leads him to the doors of the London Institute-- run by the Vishwakumar family-- where Mohan Vishwakumar has just vanished
Relationships: Ben Gross/Devi Vishwakumar
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! A few things:
> 
> 1) This fic is and will be a mess. I may not even write anymore from this point. But this felt good to write it. And I enjoyed it, and I wanted to post it.  
> 2) I am bad at writing mysteries. Like, really bad. If I end up writing this any further, it will be bad. Please do not tell me it is bad, or implausible, or unlikely, or any other unpleasant adjectives. Please.  
> 3) I am getting a lot of my Tamil words and culture related things from my beloved friends Bhargavi, who should honestly be a co-author at this point. Go give her some love @parkersedith on tumblr. We love Bhargavi in this house.  
> 5) If you have any history tips of knowledge for me, please drop them in the comments. You have no idea how much I would appreciate that.  
> 4) I hope you enjoy!

**London, 1872**

The train is spilling thick smoke, blotting out the sky and mixing with the rain heavy, blackened clouds, making the entire scene at Kings Cross station reflect Devi’s mood. 

The passerby’s stare at her and her family, and she can feel their eyes glancing over her, up and down, even when her father drops his hand to her back to guide her. 

She looks up at him— the wind is blowing his black curls of hair, and she can see the swirl of a Mark swirling up out of the neck of his _kurta—_ and he smiles down at her. 

Her _dupatta_ drops from her shoulder, and someone steps on it, crushing the soft red fabric and walking away without an apology. 

Her mother mutters something rude in Tamil, and picks up Devi’s _dupatta_ for her, wrapping it tight around her shoulders, and whispering, _“jaagardai a irrku, Devi.”_

Devi tries to answer but the words choke up in her throat as she inhales, the taste of smoke and silt and dirt on her tongue. She nods instead, toying with the hem of her _kameez._

“Shadowhunters of the Madras Institute?” A voice asks, and Devi turns her head up— she is short, shorter than her cousin, or the rest of the kids at the Institute back home, even the ones younger than her— and wrinkles her eyebrows. In habit, she brings her fingers to her forehead, and touches her _pottu,_ staring at the tiny dots of powder that have come off on her fingers. She smiles, just a little bit. 

“Yes, that’s us,” her father says, inclining his head. 

“Yes,” her mother agrees, stepping forward. The hem of her _saree,_ which is picked out with silver Runes, brushes along the ground. “Though, we run the London Institute, now.” 

“I suppose you do,” the man says, eyeing them up and down, over and over— Devi’s _salwar kameez_ the colour of saffron and dark red _dupatta,_ her mother’s yellow _saree_ and her fathers dark blue _kurta,_ the black Marks standing out against their skin— and nods. He makes a wide sweeping motion with his arm, and turns around, “follow me, then.” 

Her father guides her forward, and she wants to joke, _“I can find my way on my own, appa,”_ until they cross the street, and a horse drawn carriage dashes in front of her. She yelps, and closes her eyes, letting the arm wrapped around her shoulders lead her forward.

The carriage of the London Institute in black, purple velvet curtains hanging over the windows, with the seal of the Clave painted on the side in white. It is beginning to fade with age, after years of being lashed with rain. She knows that the sun couldn't possibly have done it. Her parents had warned her, before they left Madras, that London rarely ever sees the run. That when it does, it is wan, peeking through clouds and teasing of its existence. In India, the sun never seems to dull, hanging in the bluest skies and chasing clouds away, as if the phenomena are dependent on one another.

She sits across from her parents in the carriage, picking at loose threads on the end of her _dupatta,_ resisting the urge to bite her nails. 

_“Kanna,”_ her father says, his voice soft, and Devi turns her head up, looking at him with wide eyes. 

_“Appa?”_

“What do you want to visit in London?” he asks, his hands resting over his knees. He looks hopeful, bright-eyed, and wearing a smile that lifts Devi’s soul. He still smells like home, despite the long days spent on trains and nights spent in guest rooms at the homes of other Shadowhunters, and she thinks for a moment about leaning across the space between the seats and hiding her face in his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him, long and deep. “There is much to see, _kanna.”_

“Westminster Abbey,” she whispers, “where the Council meets— in London, at least.” She resists mentioning anything else she has been longing to see— the Clock Tower that holds Big Ben, the Royal Opera House, Hyde Park— as well as the smaller shops and boutiques the kids in the Institute back home would whisper about: dress shops on Piccadilly Street, vendors that sold rosewater tea and thin tobacco packed cigarettes, graveyards with ghosts that rose up like mist. If she were to say any of that now, her mother would click her tongue and scold her, shaking her head quickly. 

“Ah, _nallatu,”_ her father says, then falls silent for the remainder of the carriage ride. 

They pull into the courtyard of the Institute moments before it begins to rain, splattering the roof of the church and smacking into the cobblestone floor of the courtyard. It makes the air feel thick and choking, tasting of steam and scent off the Thames, like rot. Devi shudders and she pulls her _dupatta_ over her hair, covering it from the rain. She follows her parents in and stops herself from toeing her shoes off at the door when she sees the muddy boot prints, sticking her tongue out. 

“How long has the Institute been without residents?” her mother asks, turning to face the man who had driven him here, and it is in that moment that Devi realizes he has not introduced himself, and her parents have not, either.

“Few months,” the man says, and shrugs. He looks around, as if he is only just realizing they are without bags or servants, “did we… well, where are your things, ma’am?”

“Our servants will bring them,” her mother answers, holding herself tall, “when they arrive from India— they stayed behind awhile, just to sort things out.”

“Ah, I see,” the man begins, and the rest of his sentence is lost to Devi as her father taps her arm, tilting his head back to indicate _follow me._

She does, smiling, letting her _dupatta_ fall back around her shoulders, trailing after him in the long corridors with endless doors, Witchlight sconces set into the wall every few feet. Dark green banners with the interlocking C’s of the Clave embroidered on them are hanging at the end of each hall, half choking in dust, and Devi knows that her mother will make her gather them up and beat the dust out of them in the courtyard as soon as she sees them.

Finally, her father stops, and pushes open a set of large double doors. The room beyond them is well stocked, long swords and throwing knives hanging along the walls, warped floorboards and gashes in the walls, targets painted almost haphazardly and with no indication of proportion on the walls. There is one on the ceiling, and the absurdity of its location makes Devi snort behind the cover of her hand. 

Her father takes a blunt, wooden training sword from the wall and tosses it to her. She catches it, smirking, and tugs her _dupatta_ off, hanging it on a hook she finds on a wall, and tucking her hair into her _kameez._

“Just because we are in London now,” Devi says, adjusting her hold on the sword, “doesn't mean you can beat me, _appa.”_

“Well, why don’t we find out?” 

* * *

**London, January 1878**

Her father goes missing on the sunniest day Devi has seen in years. 

To be a Shadowhunter is to expect death and loss. There has not been a day in all her life that Devi has lived without the worry that one or both of her parents could die, their bodies burned in Idris and ashes scattered in the water, like her parents have always wanted. She expects them to die.

She does not expect them— him— to disappear.

He is gone without a trace, vanishing into thin air, seemingly overnight, and Devi spends three days utterly distraught, before she formulates a plan. She sneaks out, tracing the route he took on his patrol and trading Downworlder information for money, lying to her mother, Kamala, Eleanor and Fabiola, until the lies catch up with her and she is caught by her mother as she tries to leave. She is standing in the foyer in darkness, and Devi does not notice her until a Witchlight in her hand flares to life, casting patterns along the walls and blurring out Devi’s vision, if only for a moment.

_“Nee ennga porai?”_ she says, raising her eyebrows, and Devi groans, low in her throat. “Really, Devi? Going out alone?”

“I'm looking for _appa.”_ she says, stubbornly, grabbing her boots from the ground and tugging them on, meeting her mothers eyes. “I know you think the Clave can do it, but—”

“You haven't finished your training,” Nalini says, voice acidic, and her tone makes Devi stop her movements, straightening her spine. She has grown in the years since moving to the Institute, and she has to flick her eyes down to look at her mother when she stands at her full height. “You cannot go out like this, especially not alone.”

“Then send Fabiola with me,” she protests.

“She's not finished her training either, _kanna,_ you know that.” Her voice has lost its edge, evening out, nearly verging into softness, and that frightens Devi more than the threat of her mother snapping at her. When her mother is gentle, then something his wrong.

Devi shakes her head, shaking her fears away, and bites back the insults she wants to sling, the fight she wants to start. She starts forward, making for the door. “You cannot stop me—”

Her mothers hand darts out, blocking the handles of the Institutes door, and Devi sets her jaw, looking at her with all the pent up anger she has denied an outlet for. Her hands itch to reach forward and shove her mother backwards, darting for the door before she can stop her, but she quells it. “Send Kamala with me,” Devi says, and Nalini shakes her head.

“No,” she says, and lets her hand fall, however cautiously, “I could not, even if I wanted to.”

“What?” Devi asks, raising her eyebrows. _Could not, even if she wanted to?_ What could that mean? And what would be stopping her? Devi closes her eyes, and tries to picture her fathers face, his voice, telling her to be calm, to listen and understand, and she opens her eyes again.

“The Clave is taking over the investigation, _kanna,”_ Nalini says, and uses the hand that had blocked the doors to cup Devis cheek, brushing errant strands of hair out of her eyes, stroking a thumb over her cheekbone, as if that could soothe all her worries, all her pains. “We are to stay out of their way.”

Devi jerks out of her mother's grasp, and shouts, pulling a throwing dagger from her weapons belt. She does not try to aim, does not even adopt the proper stance before she throws it. The throw goes wide, twisting end over end haphazardly, but it sinks into the wall regardless, sticking out at an angle. 

She screams again, and stalks off, not even bothering to take her boots off along the way.

* * *

**London, June 1878**

Ben had always known that his father hated London for a reason, but he did not imagine that it would live up to the words he spoke of it. “Nobody is healthy in London,” he had said, quoting Austen, describing it as a gray world populated with a grayer people, the dirty slums of the East End and the corrupt morals of Chiswick and the suburbs. Breathing in the air feels like inhaling over a chimney, and Ben fights the urge to turn around and reboard his ship, falsely promising fame and fortune to the captain should he agree to turn around and ferry him back to New York. 

He shudders, and takes his bag, regretting his choice to disembark without his hat. The wind whips his hair into a brown-blond mess, and he knows that he will smell of the river by the time he reaches his destination, having neglected to inform the London Institute of his imminent arrival. Georgiana Nightsend had been missing for three weeks before Ben’s decision to track her, and his search has led him to London, a human awful wonder of God.

The walk from the docks to the Institute is long, and despite his Shadowhunter strength and training, the Angels blood pumping through his veins, his legs burn by the time he arrives, the gates swinging under his touch. He pulls the rope hanging by the door, and sets his bag on the ground, waiting for someone to arrive to let him in. He could open the door if her wanted, simply with the touch of his hand, but it seems too rude an action to perform. 

The door finally swings open, and he is almost shocked by the sight of the girl— woman, almost— standing behind it. She is a waterfall of black curls, dark skin and darker eyes. A gold loop is pierced through one of her nostrils, and there are heavy-looking golden earrings hanging from her ears. She is wearing a long blue skirt and patterned pants, and her feet are bare. He feels himself flush as he looks at her, top to bottom to top. She is far too old to be wearing her hair down the way she is, even at home, and especially for opening the door to greet a gentleman. A Mark peeks from the neckline of her blouse.

“Hello,” she says, traces of an accent that he cannot name— it is British, but there is something about it that is warmer than a British accent, something that sits farther down in her throat and begs her to clip off consonants in her speak, “you are?”

“Mr Benjamin Gross,” he says, standing awkwardly, the entirety of his speech forgotten, “and you?”

“Devi Vishwakumar,” she says, and a switch flips in his mind. _India._ That would explain her accent, her clothing, even the hoop through her nose. “What is your purpose of calling on the London Institute, Mr Gross?”

“Ben, we Shadowhunters are not so unfamiliar, Devi,” he says, and she narrows her eyes. He clears his throat, grappling for the remnants of his speech. “I am here to speak with the head of the Institute, Mr Mohan Vishwakumar.”

Devi’s eyes widen, and her mouth parts imperceptibly, and she slams the door in his face.

The force and surprise of her action makes him stagger backwards, swaying sideways and steadying himself against his suitcase. He looks back over the courtyard, and considers the possibility that he is in the wrong place. But no, Devi had called this the London Institute, and she did not seem surprised to have been called a Shadowhunter. He shakes his head, and shatches up the handle of his suitcase, pushing the door of the Institute open.

It gives way under his fingers easily, and he catches sight of Devi at the end of a long hallway. “Devi,” he shouts, and she stops, turning to look at him. She rolls her eyes.

“Take your shoes off, if you aren't going to leave,” she grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest, “though, you may not want to develop a habit of barging into ladies houses after they have closed the door on you.” 

“This is not just any house,” Ben argues, but bends down to remove his shoes regardless, pushing them against the wall next to the other shoes, “this is an Institute.” 

She narrows her eyes— they are a deadly brown, the colour of Earth after rainstorms, and Ben cannot shake the feeling that there is power in her mind. “I'm aware,” she says, and turns, “follow me.”

He does, straightening up and catching the handle of his suitcase. The London Institute is both alike and unlike the other Institutes he has visited. There are the standard decorations— the Clave insignia, Witchlight torches, gilt framed mirrors, portraits of Shadowhunters long since dead and depictions of the Angel Raziel— but there are also colourful Indian prints and vases of bright flowers, tall shelves with heavy looking golden statues and framed art of Hindu deities. 

At the end of the long hallway parallel to the Institute doors, a throwing knife is sticking out of the wall. Ben squints at it. “Would you like me to, uh—”

_“No,”_ she says, clipped, and falls silent for the remainder of the walk. 

They stop in front of what must be the drawing room, and Devi knocks. Someone inside— decidedly not Mohan, based on the lightness of their voice— says, _“va va.”_ Devi pushes the door open, and motions for Ben to follow her inside.

“What is it, _kanna?”_ the woman desk asks, without looking up from the paper she is writing on.

_“Amma,”_ Devi says, and clears her throat. The woman looks up, and catches sight of Ben.

“Oh, my apologies,” she says, setting her pen down and looking him in the eye, “I did not realize we had a guest.”

“Neither did I, till mere moments ago,” Devi says, clipped, and the woman clicks her tongue at her.

“It's quite alright, ma’am,” he says, setting his suitcase down, “I am Mr Benjamin Gross, and I am here to ask some questions of one Mr Mohan Vishwakumar regarding the whereabouts of a Shadowhunter who has gone missing.”

“I am Mrs Nalini Vishwakumar, his wife,” the woman— Nalini, now, and likely Devi’s mother— says, her eyebrows raised, “and I believe you are in the right place, Benjamin, should you like to ask questions about missing Shadowhunters.”

Ben falls silent for a moment, searching her face, then says finally, “I am afraid that I am unsure of what you are saying, ma’am. The only missing Shadowhunter I am here to ask about is Georgiana Nightsend.”

“That is a peculiar coincidence,” Nalini says, leaning forward in her chair. She is wearing a purple looking _saree,_ and it makes the brown of her skin look like the deepest heart of a fire. “Because Mohan is missing as well.” 

Ben bites his tongue, and looks between the two women in the room— Nalini, with her authoritative indifference and her neatly shorn hair and Devi, whose fingernails seem to be of more interest to her than anything either Ben or Nalini have said, despite the shine in her eyes, suggesting unsaid tears— and thinks, _perhaps I am in the right place, after all._


	2. whom she best endow'd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben nods, and roves over his options in his mind. Going against the Clave is risky, the threat of trial by the Mortal Sword looming over his head should he go against their wishes. But, then he looks at Devi again, and considers the thought that the Clave may not be doing enough. Dura lex, sed lex may only take one so far before one has to bend the rules. And he did not come all this way just to follow the law. 
> 
> He cannot be tried by the Mortal Sword if he does not get caught, and he knows how to slip through fence rails or blend into shadows, he knows how to not be caught. And if the looks in Nalini and Devi’s faces— a swirl of skepticism and hope— is anything to go on, then there is hope that the Vishwakumar family may help him, and in turn, help themselves.
> 
> \--
> 
> OR; in 1878, when Shadowhunters begin to go missing, Ben Gross' search leads him to the doors of the London Institute-- run by the Vishwakumar family-- where Mohan Vishwakumar has just vanished

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter One! Look at me go. Thank you to Bhargavi (@parkersedith on tumblr) for translating the Tamil for me. Thank you to Leila and Cori for reading a fic whose inspiration they have no background knowledge of, and thank you to all three of you (and Maggie, who is off living her vampiric dreamlife) for being my friends.
> 
> Also, I just found out that I got a 31 on the ACT, so that is for sure going in this author's note.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

“The head of the London Institute has gone missing?” Ben repeats, sounding dumb to his own ears he looks around the room, as if searching for any explanation of this coincidence— but all at once, he remembers that Nephilim do not have the luxury of coincidence. “I… who has been appointed to run it in his stead?” 

Nalini’s eyes narrow, and he hears Devi scoff. He casts a look in her direction, and sees her rolling her eyes, shaking her head disapprovingly. Ben blinks, opening his mouth and closing it. There is a thick tension in the air, and he keeps catching Nalini and Devi making quick eye contact, as if they are having a silent conversation.

“I am running it,” Nalini answers, locking her fingers together underneath her chin. Her accent holds stronger than Devi’s, and it makes Ben wonder how old Devi was when they moved to London. “Seeing as I am perfectly capable and come with many good recommendations from the Madras Institute, Benjamin.” 

“Ah,” Ben says, and licks his lips awkwardly. He scratches his nails along the fine fabric of his pants. “I didn’t mean to offend.” 

“You never would,” Devi snaps, her head up and a vicious glow in her eyes, “would you?” 

He does not know how to respond, so he pivots and moves back to the topic at hand. “How long has Mr Vishwakumar been missing, ma’am?” 

“Near on six months,” Nalini answers, looking down at her hands. Ben can just make out the faint silvery scars that criss cross over her knuckles and down her arms, and he can imagine that his hands look much the same. “The Clave has yet to come up with any worthwhile leads as to his whereabouts.” 

She sounds choked as she answers and it makes the small, barely there part of him that is left poorly guarded to emotional blows ache. He knows of loss, but only loss with resolution. Loss that ends with funeral pyres and scattered ashes. Not of loss that lacks conclusion, and despite his fathers claims that Ben will never be an empath, there is a part of him that feels Nalini's pain as if it were his own. 

“My condolences, Mrs Vishwakumar,” Ben says, inclining his head, sparing a glance to Devi. He is beginning to think she is simply impossible to read, with guarded expressions and slit-eyed glares. 

“It’s not as if he’s dead,” Devi whispers under her breath. Ben would not have heard it without the Mark inked on the back of his neck that amplifies his hearing, allowing him to hear whispers and far away shouts. 

He looks up, catching Devi’s eye, and hopes she is able to tell through the eye contact that he heard her. She looks away, blinking quickly, dark eyelashes brushing her cheekbones. 

“Do you know of anyone that may have any information?” Ben asks, looking away from Devi. It feels as if the temperature of the room drops ten degrees when he tears his gaze away from her. “About either Georgiana or Mr Vishwakumar.” 

“I can’t say I do,” Nalini says, studying the top of her desk, “the Clave took over the investigation after my—our— initial inquiries yielded nearly nothing. I’m afraid it is all in their hands now.” 

Ben nods, and roves over his options in his mind. Going against the Clave is risky, the threat of trial by the Mortal Sword looming over his head should he go against their wishes. But, then he looks at Devi again, and considers the thought that the Clave may not be doing enough.  _ Dura lex, sed lex _ may only take one so far before one has to bend the rules. And he did not come all this way just to follow the law. 

He cannot be tried by the Mortal Sword if he does not get caught, and he knows how to slip through fence rails or blend into shadows, he knows how to not be caught. And if the looks in Nalini and Devi’s faces— a swirl of skepticism and hope— is anything to go on, then there is hope that the Vishwakumar family may help him, and in turn, help themselves.

“ _ Nearly nothing,”  _ Ben says, and sees Devi’s head jerk up in his peripheral vision. Her hair has draped over her shoulders, falling in tangled waves, and an errant voice inside of him whispers to smooth them down. She pushes her hair back, behind her neck, and the voice quiets but does not disappear.

_ “Enna?”  _ Nalini asks, and shakes her head, blinking at him. “I’m sorry, what?” she says, pressing two fingers to her temples. She cannot be more than forty-five, and yet lines of wrinkles have set into her skin, swirls of gray growing in her hair. 

“You said you found nearly nothing,” he repeats, moving forward to take a seat in one of the chairs in front of her desk. The desk itself is a heavy oak thing, thick papers scattered across it, ink stains and gouges from letter openers and pen nibs digging into the wood, wax drips from letter seals and indented writing in swirls and lines. Ben does not recognize the language. The chair he sits in is cushioned with fading floral fabric on the seat and in the back, and a long tear crosses diagonally over the back of the chair. He can feel it pressing into his shoulder blades, through the fabric of his clothing. “Not completely nothing.” 

Nalini sighs, and opens her mouth, then closes it. She seems as if she is torn between telling him the information they found and remaining true to the word she gave the Clave. Ben does not envy her in her decision— she has far more to lose than he, she would face the loss of control over the Institute, and therefore the loss of her home, should she disobey them. 

He is moments away from rescinding her question when Nalini turns to Devi, saying,  _ engai  _ papers _ irrku?”  _

Devi shrugs.  _ “Therilai,”  _ she says, not looking up from her nails, “I thought you handed them over to the Consul,” she adds, in the tone of someone who has looked for them without seeing any success.

Nalini sighs, and mutters something that Ben is sure he should not repeat despite not understanding, before rising from her chair. “I will go look for them,” she says, and looks at Devi,  _ “ahdhu payan ka pesadai.”  _

Devi nods, and watches her mother leave the room, waiting a few moments before walking across the floor carefully. She peeks her head out the door, then shuts it with a click, and before he can decipher the meaning of her actions, he is sprawled on the floor, his chair digging into his ribcage. There is a crack in the ceiling that runs the length of the room, and Ben stares at it before his reaction kicks in.

“What?” he says, and pulls himself upright, blood pumping. It always seems that his vision slows down, his heartbeat lowering in the moments that a fight begins and he can already feel himself entering that mindset, that part of himself. His mind searches out an enemy, a threat, spinning at the possibility of a demon in the Institute, before he realizes that it is nothing like that at all.

Devi is standing in front of him, hair wild, like a little girl at the peak of her savagery, and she looks like every nightmare he has ever had of the demon that guards the gates of Hell that the children in the New York Institute used to tease him about. There is a fire in her eyes and a rage growling in her throat when she speaks, vicious and clipped, cruelty that pushes him harder than her arms have.

“Your audacity is striking,” Devi says, her hands up in a defensive position, and it is only then that Ben realizes she had pushed his chair— and him— to the ground. “Showing up here, demanding information like  _ periya pistana nanapu.”  _

She lashes out at him, her fist hitting his chest, and he realizes that this has never happened before. He has never had another Shadowhunter attack him so openly, so angrily or without reason. There is fire in her eyes, and he realizes that they are unevenly matched— he is wearing fine clothes, thick fabrics and precise cuts that lower his range of movement, and the clothes she is wearing— at least, in his opinion— are not far from gear, a long shirt and pants, bare, stockingless feet. The only liability he can spot on her is her hair, still hanging loose around her head in soft charcoal curls. 

He chooses to fight dirty, to forego his training, and he moves forward, skirting her hands and grabbing a fistful of hair. He yanks on it, and she snarls, but it is too late for her to defend against him: he spins, pulling her body towards his, and pins her to the wall with his body, grabbing her wrist and twisting her arm behind her back. Her chest is pressed into the wall, her back crushed against him, and he can feel the rise and fall rhythm of her inhales and exhales against his ribcage.

It is this moment when he realizes how slight she is. She is not much shorter than him, a few inches at most, the top of her head resting perfectly at his eyeline, but she is skinny. His mother would have said  _ a bag of bones and skin,  _ and he would have believed it were it not for the press of her body against his, and the strain of muscle that he can feel in her arms as she writhes against him, looking for a way out of his grip.

“Let go of me!” she protests, struggling against his grip. It makes her seem even smaller, suddenly, and Ben wonders if his perception of her will continue to change this much, this frequently, as he gets to know her. But getting to know her seems laughable when this much venom is coming from her. He thinks her body temperature may rise out of sheer rage.

“What is  _ wrong  _ with you?” he shouts, unknotting his fingers from her hair, choosing instead to cup the back of her head with his hand. Her chest is pressed against the wall, and he wonders momentarily about hurting her, before she tries to kick him in the knee. She misses, though, as he slots his legs around her ankle, squeezing, and she groans. 

“I hate you,” she spits, like a curse, and turns her head. He can just see the dip of her nose, the golden hoop in her nostril catching the white glow of the Witchlight lantern sitting on the desk. “Let go of me, now.” 

“No,” he says, and digs his nails into her scalp, just for effect, “tell me what your problem is first.”

She laughs, a bitter sound, and says, “it appears we are at an impasse.” 

“Appears so.” 

“You know,” she says, and squirms against him. It accomplishes nothing, but makes him aware of the compromising position they have found themselves in.  _ She attacked you,  _ he catches himself thinking, as if he will need a defense. “My mother will come back eventually, and she told me not to speak to you while she was gone.”

“That’s what that was?”

“Be quiet,” Devi says, venomous, “when she comes back, and finds us this way, I do not think it will end well for you.” 

“Shit,” he curses, then flushes— he may be a Shadowhunter, with a differing code of propriety, but the thought of swearing in front of a lady (albeit one that throws punches and insults and seems to break every rule ever written) diseases him. “Swear you’ll tell me if I release you.” 

“Those are your terms?” 

“Yes.”

“Then, no.”

“Tell me what you want in exchange for your release,” Ben hisses, directly in her ear, and feels some vicious sense of pleasure when goosebumps rise along the curve of her neck. 

“I want to see the papers.” 

“Alright,” he agrees, without further inquiry. “I’ll let you see them, I swear.” 

She groans, hesitating, and nods. “I’ll explain myself,” she says, and sighs when his grip on her hair loosens, “I-I swear. On the Angel Raziel.  _ Vittuku.’  _

He nods, satisfied, and steps away from her, looking her up and down. Her clothing is wrinkled and her hair mussed, looking to all the world like she just stepped out of bed or a brothel, and a small part of him panics at the thought of Nalini noticing. He wills himself to calm, though, as Devi pulls her fingers through her hair and smooths the fabric of her clothes, easing the wrinkles out of them. Ben hears footsteps, and quickly rights the chair he had been sitting in before Devi pushed him, sparing a glance at Devi. she has schooled her expression and her hair, falling behind her shoulders in a thick curtain of darkness.

He can remember what that hair felt like— thick and heavy and soft, a coarseness to it that makes him think of braided cords, and he surprises himself by thinking of her hair fondly.

Nalini reappears, holding a stack of papers tied together with twine, thick paper and scraps, looping letters and twisting shapes and Ben realizes that they match the language he could not decipher that is indented into the desk. He knows it is not Hindi, and he is at a loss for what else it could possibly be instead. 

_ “Inga,”  _ she says, and passes him the papers. He takes them carefully, like they are something easily broken. They smell thick and pulpy, like there is life and substance behind each one, and Ben holds them to his chest gently, like a child grasping a book. She holds her hands up after passing the papers to him, and sits back down at her desk. “My hands are clean of this,” Nalini says, and Ben hears a soft gasp from the corner of the room that Devi has let herself sink into, “if you are asked, these papers came from another. Or you stole them. I don't care— I do not want to be involved.”

Ben looks at Devi, his mouth half open. She looks… blank. Like she has been wrung out of all emotions, like she has let her mother surprise her for the very last time. 

“Alright,” Devi says, before Ben can do it himself. She pushes herself out of the corner, and Ben's eyes catch sight of a scratch raising itself on the skin of her neck, blotched red, and he begins to vaguely recollect his nails scratching her as he had grabbed her hair. Panic wells up in his throat, but as if she can read his mind, she moves her hair, and it covers any evidence of their fight. “Thank you,  _ amma.”  _

“You're welcome, Devi,” Nalini says. He grabs his suitcase, tucking the papers into the pocket sewn in the inside of his jacket, and Devi pushes him out of the drawing room. The last thing he catches a glimpse of is Nalini, her head hidden in her hands, Witchlight playing over the details in her hands, and Ben feels suddenly, impossibly sympathetic towards her.

Devi closes the door, and his sympathy shuts along with it.

* * *

Devi moves before she can truly think through the action. She has done a lot of that lately, acting without thinking, and the catalyst must be Ben. He has messed everything up— she was this close to shirking her mothers suspicion and being able to sneak out again; she was this close to loosening tongues in a faerie haunt on the East End when  _ he  _ showed up. Blue eyes and hair the colour of wheat fields and calloused, scarred hands, and a mouth that ruins everything and she hates him more than anything.

(Hating him more than anything is a lie, though. She hates whatever made her father disappear far more than she could ever hate him. And there was this way that he had laughed in her ear while he had her pinned, holding the back of her head like something precious, that made slivers of her ice like anger melt away, and she can already feel her displacement of him ebbing away like a limited tide)

She waits until they turn the corner, drifting away from the drawing room, before she grabs the lapels of his coat and shoves him against the wall. Her knuckles dig into his chest, and it blossoms some wicked, vicious pleasure in her chest. She hopes despite impossibility that it leaves a scar. That her hands are hot enough to burn him. 

“Give me the papers,” she hisses, and watches his eyes widen. It almost catches her off guard— almost— because they are the bluest eyes she has ever seen. Blue like ocean waters and Indian skies and there is something about looking into his eyes that makes her borderline homesick, but then a warmth bleeds into them, like he cares about her, and worries why she snaps and screams and fights, and she has to look away with him. She is afraid that if she doesn't, she will fall headlong into those eyes. “That my mom gave you. Give me them.”

“No,” he says, unruffled, ruining everything all over again, “I won't give you the papers, Devi. we can look at them together.”

She wants to take the offer, because there is a tone to his voice that makes her think he had been planning to show her all along, to honour their agreement, and she wants to back off. To temper the flames that have become her hands. But then she remembers the coach that had driven them to the Institute, remembers the look in his eyes when he had found out they would be running the Institute, remembers the question Ben had asked of her mother when he found out that her father is missing,  _ who has been appointed to run it in his stead?  _ and she growls, pinning him against the wall harder. Ben does not react.

“No,” she says, “I'm not signing over my fathers life to you. Give me the papers, Ben.”

“You're not signing your fathers life over to me,” he says, frustrating gentleness, “You're letting me help you. I  _ want  _ to help you, I have a stake in this too, Devi. Georgiana is still missing. I want to find her— I want to find your father— and I want your help.” He gestures faintly to his jacket, curling his fingers, and it makes her  _ kameez  _ brush against her stomach. “If you really wanted just the papers, without myself attached, you would have taken them.”

She blinks, losing her step. “What?” she asks, tilting her head, and Ben takes the moment to break the hold she had on his jacket lapels, knocking her hands away and circles her wrists with his fingers, pinning them to her side.

“You knew where I put the papers. You saw me do it in the drawing room,” he says, and, in an extreme show of faith, lets go of her wrists and steps back. She forces herself to remain still. “You could've taken them quite easily, if your swiftness is any indication. Why do you think you didn’t take them from me?”

She stammers momentarily, and despises herself for it. “I don’t believe in stealing,” she says finally, and Ben laughs, shaking his head. She wants to smile, but fights it, damning herself for even feeling the urge. 

“I know that you are lying,” Ben says, smiling at her.

“It’s the answer I’m giving,” she says, and crosses her arms, “you shall have to accept it.”

“It seems I shall,” he says, and bends down, picking up his suitcase. When he straightens back up, he is smiling, smiling at her.

_ His mouth ruins everything,  _ she thinks, and looks away from him before she can be tempted to tip forward into his eyes.

* * *

Devis room is something bright.

His eyes slip and slide over the features of it— a four poster bed and heavy armoire, a vanity with jewelry and cosmetic tins scattered over it. Her desk has been pushed into a corner, books stacked in haphazard piles over the top of it, ribbons hanging from intermittent spots in each of them. There is a Japanese style screen blocking out another corner of the room, and Ben guesses that there must be a bathtub behind it. Devi’s nightgown is thrown over the top of the screen, and it occurs to Ben that their maid must not clean Devi’s room, based on the state of the bed— unmade, with mismatched gloves and scarves laying bunched up at the foot— and the papers scattered wildly about the floor. There are potted plants and heavy looking gold statues and glass perfume bottles in places they do not belong, and Ben fights the urge to begin to tidy up, knowing without a doubt that Devi would not welcome it.

Her walls are adorned with bright prints of beautiful women in fancy  _ sarees,  _ bright and complex patterns. One features the Hindu God Ganesh, and is tacked on the wall above her desk. He can see peaks of floral wallpaper in between the art, teasing flowers with delicately painted petals, and Ben has a ridiculous desire to reach out and run his fingers along them.

“Let me see the papers,” Devi says, holding a hand out and sinking onto her bed, leaning against one of the posts. It features a long stemmed rose that she has clearly carved into the wood herself, and Ben tries to picture Devi sneaking a sturdy knife from the weapons room into her bedroom and chipping away at the wood until it resembled a style she liked. 

He pulls them from his jacket and passes them to her, standing awkwardly in the certain of her room. He has been in a girls room before— Georgiana’s— but something about being in Devis' room feels different. Different in the same way that Devi herself feels different. Waterfall of hair loose around her face kind of different, and Ben wants to find her odd, but he cannot find it in himself to do so.

They are quiet for several minutes, Ben's eyes scanning over Devi’s room while her eyes scan over the papers. “This is… useless,” she finally says, tossing the papers behind her on her bed, “it’s nothing I didnt already find out in Downworld.” She lets herself fall backwards, springs squeaking as she lands, crumpling papers.

“Devi!” Ben says, leaning over the side of her bed to gather up the papers that she tossed, “you’ll ruin them.”

“Does it matter?” she asks, acidic, and Ben wants to shake her. “I already know everything in those papers. It is just about him disappearing, without clues to his whereabouts. They are pointless.”

“Devi—”

“You crossed the ocean for  _ nothing,”  _ she spits, and Ben stills, his hand outstretched towards one of the loose papers.  _ I did not cross the ocean for nothing,  _ he wants to say, wants to look her in the eye while he says it,  _ I crossed it for everything.  _

Instead, anger flares up in him, and he throws the papers at her. She blinks, eyes locking onto his, a frown curving her lips into a pathetic imitation of a half moon. “You act like a child,” he says, and she scoffs, looking away from him, “you put up a fight with me for the papers, for information, and then when you are offered it, you toss it away. Because why? Because it did not have the answers you hoped for?”

Devi sits up, papers falling into her lap and fire blazing in her eyes. “How dare—”

“Pieces of paper will not have the answers, Devi,” he says, cutting her off and relishing in the offense that makes itself known in her features, “you have to  _ find  _ them. And you will not do it by complaining, or moping about when you don’t get what you wanted.”

“Get out.” Her voice is icy cold, wobbling, and suddenly he regrets it. He opens his mouth to apologize, to tell her he lost his cool, but she closes her eyes and a tear spills down her cheek. He closes his mouth. “Get  _ out,”  _ she grinds out, and he nods. 

He picks up his suitcase, and with one backwards glance at Devi— she is sobbing already, her head heavy in her hands— leaves, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Devi is hacking wildly at a training dummy with a sabre. The blade needs to be sharpened; it is barely cutting at the wooden body of the dummy. If she was not so furious, her mind spinning in dozens of different directions, she would stop and sharpen the blade. She tries to visualize herself swinging her blade at Ben, then tampers down the urge to do so. They are both Nephilim, Shadowhunters with the same divine mission to rid the world of demons.

She snorts, laughing at herself despite her anger, and considers asking Ben to come spar with her.

“You're training with a pirate sword?” a voice asks, and Devi whirls around. Fabiola is standing in the doorway of the training room, leaning against the frame. She has put her gear on and pulled her hair into a puff on top of her head. Her kaskara is strapped to her back, and it makes a harsh scraping sound against the wood of the doorframe when she moves. “You hate pirate swords.”

“I wanted something that could do a lot of damage,” Devi answers, and groans when the blade sticks in the dummy. She yanks it out, throwing the sword behind her, and kicking the dummy over. It falls with a clatter, the teasing smile someone had painted on it looking up at her mockingly.

“You seem to do damage without a weapon,” Fabiola says, coming into the room and shutting the door behind her. “Speaking of which, there is an American angrily reading in the library. You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?”

_ American.  _ That had to be Ben. Devi had not yet put two and two together for him, had not decided yet if he was truly American. Part of her wanted to believe that he had come from Idris, like Fabiola— the Shadowhunters that move to Institutes after living in Idris almost always seem to have a prideful attitude towards the Shadowhunters who have never been, like Devi. When Fabiola had first come to the Institute, she talked constantly of the beauty of Idris, the clear air and the green grass and the timeless feel of Alicante. She had spent summers running laps in the Brodelind fields, apparently, and Devi had heard enough descriptions of the grass to last her a lifetime.

No one ever seemed to ask Devi about the beauty of India, about the small details— about how it felt to walk through markets and shop for  _ lehengas  _ with her mother— but there was always someone asking Fabiola about the finer details of her life in Idris. 

It had faded eventually, Fabiola’s insistence on bringing up Idris whenever she found the chance, and when she speaks of it now, Devi knows that it is with the sweet nostalgia of homesickness. That it may have been that all along.

“Here,” she says, and pulls a throwing dagger from her weapons belt. She hands it to Devi, hilt first, and she takes it. “Now, tell me about what you did to the American.”

“His name is Ben,” Devi says, weighing the blade in her hand, “and I didnt do anything to him.”

“The only people who read angrily are the ones who have had a run-in with Devi,” Fabiola argues, leaning coolly against a wall, “especially when she is in a mood. And I believe that you are.”

“Why would I be in a mood?”

“Because you often are,” Fabiola says. Devi looks at her, over her shoulder, and she shrugs. “Ever since Mrs Vishwakumar caught you sneaking out, at least.”

“I’ve been in a mood since then?” she asks, and moves to stand in front of the target painted on the wall. Her and her father had redone them a few months after first arriving in the Institute, and they are brighter than when they arrived, and more even. The memory of painting them— of getting paint in her hair and on her fathers new clothes, laughing until her stomach hurt— makes her entire body ache. 

“Do not deny it, you know yourself,” Fabiola says.

Devi throws the knife, and it sails through the air perfectly, hitting the center of the target and sticking there. Part of her thrills, while another part whispers  _ pride is pointless when you have accomplished the expected.  _

“I think my mood has been warranted,” Devi says, stepping forward and tugging the knife out of the wall, “my father is missing and no one is doing anything about it.”

“People are doing things about it, just not what you want them to be doing. Or not what you think is right.”

“What does that—”

“You would violate the Accords to help him,” Fabiola says, “I know you. I know you would. Which is precisely why the Clave took over the investigation, because they are capable of objectivity.”

“And I am not?”

Fabiola shakes her head. A single coil of hair falls loose and she blows a breath at it in a huff. “Not where Mohan is concerned. Devi, I love you, but your sight gets clouded when you're trying to help people you care about.”

Devi throws the knife again, watching it sink into the wall, vibrating slightly. She says nothing, and Fabiola sighs. Devi watches her pull her kaskara from its sheath, running her fingers along the flat side of the blade.

“You're a great person, and a wonderful friend, and I care for you greatly. But, be honest, you would have done anything to find him,” Fabiola says, “you would have broken the law— the Accords— if it meant getting your father back.”

“So?” Devi asks.

“So, I think the American could help keep you in line.” Fabiola says, grabbing a long sword from the wall and tossing it to Devi. She catches it, stepping into form in front of Fabiola and twirling the sword around her hand. “Show off,” Fabiola jokes.

“Shut up,” Devi says, sidestepping Fabiola’s first slash of the blade, “about Ben and about my showing off.”

“He seems… less prone to emotional outbursts,” Fabiola says. Devi shrieks, in the back of her throat, and strikes forward. Fabiola parries her strikes, nearly knocking the sword out of Devi’s hand, but she recovers, straightening up and stepping back. “I think you would work well with him.”

“I think he would work better drowning in the Thames,” Devi spits. Their swords clash together, and Devi twists, knocking Fabiola’s kaskara from her hand. It clatters to the floor loudly, metal striking wood, and Devi levels her blade at Fabiolas throat. “I want to set him on fire.”

“You know that I cannot let you do that,” Fabiola says, joking in her voice. She holds her hands up and tilts her head back in surrender.

“You aren’t any fun,” Devi says, letting her sword off of Fabiolas neck. Fabiola smiles, and picks her kaskara up off the ground. “It would only be a small fire. A little one.”

“No, Devi.”

“Fine.”

* * *

Devi is dressed in her nightgown, soft white fabric spilling over her knees, and she is pouring over the papers that Ben had thrown at her earlier when they had fought for any detail she may have missed. 

She had not been wrong: they all consist of details she had already gathered in Downworld, and she is close to giving up and giving into the temptation to toss the papers into the fire that Eleanor had built up in the grate for her when she hears a tapping at her window. 

She stands up from her seat, and undoes the latch of her window, pushing it open. A paper folded into the shape of a bird flits into her opened window, landing softly on top of her desk and unfolding itself. 

She picks it up, scanning the lines, and smirking. She sets the note back down on her desk, and changes into her gear quickly, fastening her weapons belt around her waist and tucking the note into her pocket. She is tugging her boots on when her door opens, and her head jerks up.

“Devi, I—” he starts, then cuts off when he catches sight of her.

Blue eyes and a mouth that ruins everything.

_ “Thai oli.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much for reading! If you enjoyed it, then leave a kudos, and if you really enjoyed it, then leave a comment. They make my cat respect me. Thank you so, so, so much!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it, leave a kudos, and if you really liked it, leave a comment and tell me why and/or about your pets. I really appreciate it. Your comments and kudos keep me alive and make my cats respect me. Thanks!


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